


Watching You

by MysticPuma



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, John is more broken than Sherlock thought..., M/M, Painful ones, Post Reichenbach, Sherlock has emotions, Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-24
Updated: 2013-03-24
Packaged: 2017-12-03 12:14:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 14
Words: 3,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/698135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MysticPuma/pseuds/MysticPuma
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"But watching you stand alone…" – A Thousand Years (Christina Perri)</p>
<p>POST Reichenbach; Sherlock watches John from afar. At first, his resolve to stay "dead" is set, but over time, it begins to waver.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Graveyard

**Author's Note:**

> This gets very angsty... You have been warned.  
> It was going to be a one-shot... It got out of hand XD.

I am dead.

Well, technically I'm not, but to the world I am. To London, to Scotland Yard, to Lestrade, to Mrs Hudson.

And I'm dead to John. The only one who knows I'm alive is Molly. Even Mycroft has been temporarily fooled. It won't be long though, until he realises. He's not stupid.

I stand beside the tree in the grey cemetery. I see John. He's by my grave. He's talking. I can hardly make out what he's saying. Some kind of sentimental rubbish, it is John after all. He's always been so emotional.

He touches the headstone. Is his hand shaking?

"I was… So alone… And I owe you so much…" he says. His voice is uneven. He's crying. I feel a warmth in my chest. He's crying over me.

"Just one more miracle, Sherlock… For me." He is pleading. What does he want? "Don't… Be… Dead." The one thing I can't do. Not yet, anyway. Not until you're safe, John. "Just for me, stop, just stop this…!" My heart thumps. He knows! But if he knows, why is he so upset?

He doesn't know, he's just wishing, believing. Denial, I believe it's called.

He straightens up. Soldier-mode. That's his way of dealing with it. He will treat my "death" like it were a death in the hospital, on the battle-field. Just another patient.

I watch him walk away. If he turns just ninety more degrees to the left, he might see me. But he can't. I'll move.

He stops. He's heard something. A bird rustles above me, and he turns. I am behind the tree before he is done. I'm thin enough to hide easily behind the tree. I wait a while before peeking around.

He is gone.


	2. The Room

I chuckle to myself. The squatters are still running away, down Baker's Street. I need this building, this room specifically. I can't sleep on the street, for one thing. Besides, it's a perfect place to watch John. I've always found it fascinating to watch his simple lifestyle, his mundane little tasks. Drinking tea, writing his blog.

I blow out the candle, and stare through the window of the room I now occupy. I can see the flat I called my home just a week ago. I sighed, looking at my chair longingly. I shake my head. That was far too sentimental for comfort.

I frown. John isn't moving. He's just sitting there, a cup of cold tea in his hand. I squint to see better. He's crying… Still? Now? No. Something else must have happened. Then I remember, that my logic does not apply to the emotions of others. He _is_ crying. He's still crying over me.

I sigh. Why must people waste time and energy grieving? It does nothing to aid us. There is nothing to be gained from dwelling on the memory of someone who is dead.

My phone buzzes. Mycroft just worked it out. I pull out my phone, and sure enough:

_You're still alive, aren't you? MH_

I chuckle, imagining the tone of my brother's voice.

_Yes. SH_

I click send, and then return to watching John. He still isn't moving. My phone buzzes again.

_Moriarty? MH_

_Yes. SH_

_Is John safe? MH_

Why did he ask about John?

_Yes, why? SH_

_I'm concerned. MH_

_As usual. SH_

_It's normal to be concerned. MH_

_Not for you. SH_

_True. MH_

_Took you a while to figure it out. SH_

_Well, you were quite thorough. MH_

_Thank you. SH_

_I do wonder why though. MH_

_Like you said. Moriarty. SH_

_Isn't he dead? MH_

_Yes, but his men aren't. SH_

_Oh. MH_

_They're after John, Mrs Hudson and Lestrade. If I show myself, they'll be killed. SH_

_Ah. That is a problem. Need help? MH_

_No thanks. SH_

_Don't lie. It doesn't become you. MH_

_Even if I say no, you'll help anyway. Might as well argue. SH_

_Whatever you say. Don't reveal yourself to John. MH_

I roll my eyes. I'm not stupid either, Mycroft. I won't reveal myself to John. I slip the phone into my pocket again, and look up.

John hasn't moved an inch.


	3. The Window

I still stay in the flat opposite 221B occasionally, but Mycroft has taken it upon himself to drag me into his large house every so often. Two weeks now since my death. One week since my funeral. I'm bored.

I watch John again from the window. He does the same each day. He gets up, has a single slice of toast, makes a cup of tea, sits down, and stays there for the whole day. He's been going to bed earlier and earlier. I think he's fed up, but I don't know what of. I hate not knowing.

This time it's six o'clock when he heads to bed. I frown. Earlier again. Six o'clock is unnatural. He isn't even tired.

I wait half an hour, then leap out of the open window. I do like dramatic. It's not boring. Normal is dull.

I find my way to the back of the flat. I scale the metal stairs to John's window. He left the window open again. I listen. Heavy breathing. He's asleep then. Dreaming, I assume judging by the ragged rhythm of his breath. A bad dream.

He often dreams.

"SHERLOCK!" he cries, and I duck down to hide beneath the window. I close my eyes and listen. Heavy breathing. He's still dreaming. I can only imagine he's re-living my death…


	4. The Flat

Another week has gone by. John doesn't leave his room much anymore. He occasionally leaves to get a cup of tea, but he closes him eyes as he passes the living room, and only opens them to pour his tea, or make a sandwich. He then picks up whatever he's just made, and closes his eyes before turning and going back to the stairs and up to his room.

Mrs Hudson is getting quite upset about the various tea stains on the carpet; it's quite hard to stop the tea spilling when your eyes are closed. John has several burns now, in fact. Each time I see him with tea, I want to rush in and stop it spilling, if only to save him the burns, and the yelling. But I can't.

I am dead.


	5. The Hospital

A few weeks ago, John left the flat. I was happy at first, to see him doing something other than sitting around, but I soon realised what he was doing. He does the same each day. It's quite… Un-nerving.

Each time, he calls a cab. I had to map out where it was going at first, but I don't need to anymore. I know where it takes him. Bart's.

He's doing it again. It's five o'clock in the morning. No-body is around. He walks into the hospital. He walks slowly up the stairs. It takes him ten minutes sometimes, if he's slow enough. He gets to the roof. I watch from the roof next door, behind a ventilation shaft. The first time, I recall, it took him a moment of staring at the floor to recognise the blood-stains that had never quite been removed. He avoided it, trying to keep at least a metre from it. Any trace of Moriarty and he runs as though his life depends on it. Which it probably does.

He steps up to the edge again. The exact spot I stood to say goodbye to him. He's sad. He mutters.

"Why…Why did you do it, Sherlock? I needed you…"

His walking stick is clasped tightly in his hand. The limp returned a month ago, when he started to give up on me.

When I say "give up", it's more like he's convinced himself I don't care. Never have, never will. He thinks that if I am still alive, I wouldn't want to come back.

My resolve is wavering… I know I mustn't show myself to John, not for a long while yet. But I do worry.


	6. The Taxi

It's been six months now.

John took my skull. He hugs it at night.

He still does his little ritual. I'm past worrying about it now. I know he won't jump. He's too caring to others for that.

Harry is here. She has dragged John from the flat. She's insisting on buying him a substantial meal. He barely eats. A sandwich a day seems to be the extent of his food intake. Now I know how he felt when I didn't eat.

I find it hard now. Watching John is my life. I barely leave the flat opposite 221B anymore. Mycroft has berated me, saying it's not healthy. I don't care what he thinks. Apparently rumours are spreading of the "Shadow-man of Baker Street". They make me sound like some kind of Voodoo witch-doctor. I'm no doctor. John is.

Each moment of my existence is spent thinking of farfetched and impossible ways I could reveal myself to John. Each one is destroyed as soon as it is made inside my head. I can't reveal myself. But I want to so much.

I follow the cab Harry has pulled John into. John's expression is the same as normal. Blank, uncaring, as though his world has fallen apart. I don't quite understand. Surely he should be over my death by now… I never understood emotion.


	7. The Wait

I wish I understood this emotion business! My head's exploding. I can't think straight. Mycroft's trying to distract me by telling me of cases Lestrade's been taking. Normally, they'd interest me. I'd be jumping up and down with glee and the adrenalin would rush though me and bring me to life.

But I can't move.

I can't think.

I can't stop watching John.

He's gotten worse. It's been eight months. I miss his annoyed comments, his screaming at my experiments. I miss the arguments over the cigarettes, the Cluedo games I'd always lose. I miss his cups of tea, and his neat-freak tidying habits.

I miss him.

I always did.

I always will.

I need to see him, speak to him. Anything…

But Mycroft forbids it.

I no longer have an argument myself. I cannot think of anything that should stop me from seeing him. But Mycroft insists I must wait. I can't wait any longer!


	8. The Messenger

John is thin. Too thin. I contacted Molly yesterday. She's checking up on him for me.

She leaves 221B, and quickly checks John isn't watching, before she slips into the opposite flat and up to the room I sit in.

"Well?" I ask, my voice steady.

"It's worse than you thought." Molly says. I control myself.

"How bad?" I don't look at her. I'm still watching John.

"Really bad… He hasn't eaten in days. Mrs Hudson says it's what always happens. He doesn't eat for nearly a week, and then he'll eat a sandwich."

"That's all?" I ask. I feel my voice crack. Even I don't eat as infrequently as that.

"Mrs Hudson forces the sandwich down his throat." She says. My chest hurts. John. Why are you doing this John? "He won't eat of his own accord. He drinks at least ten cups of tea a day. Maybe more. He's broken, Sherlock. He needs you!"

I lose it.

"YOU THINK I DON'T KNOW THAT!" I yell, my hands balling into tight fists. "YOU THINK I'M ANY BETTER! I WANT TO GO BACK, MOLLY!" I stand up and storm over to her. "But I can't…" I whisper, my voice is low, harsh, venomous. "I'm being kept away from him, as though I'm a spoilt child being held from an ice cream stand!"

"Sherlock, I didn't mean-"

"I KNOW EXACTLY WHAT YOU MEANT!" I scream. The emotions crash down upon me, the weight of a thousand worlds crush me. I collapse into a crumpled, whimpering heap of tears on the floor. What is this? I don't understand.

"Sherlock!" she cries, panicked. I must pull myself together. Together? Fit the pieces together. What pieces? They've been destroyed. I am destroyed. I am dead. Dead inside. I crawl to the window and stare at John. He's staring too. Not at me. He can't see me. Thank goodness.

He stares at the street. I stare at him. I watch him standing alone in the flat. Our flat. My mind tears apart. I want to yell, to scream his name, to jump from the window and shout to the world "I'M ALIVE!" But then I'd be lying.

I'm not alive. I'm nothing. I'm a shell. I am dead without John.


	9. The Dream

I stare through the window of John's room. He is dreaming again. I climb carefully through the window, jumping lightly, silently, over John's bed. He tosses and turns.

"Sherlock… No… Don't…" he mutters. In the dim light from the street-lights and moon, I see his face, tightly scrunched and sweating.

It's nearly been a year now. Since I died.

His dream becomes more violent. He is writhing in mental pain.

I place a hand on his forehead, and gently smooth the creases that have appeared there. At my touch he stills, a pleasant peacefulness settling over the room. This un-nerves me. He shouldn't be so dependent on me. Not after so long. But I don't know what to do. I've never been good at sentiment…


	10. The Signs

Molly is here again. She doesn't want a repeat of last time. She knows I'm not to blame, and yet I still feel that I am. Why? It isn't my fault. Mycroft forbids me from seeing John, from John seeing me.

"Molly?" I say after a while. She looked up from her tea.

"Yes?" she asks, her voice quiet.

"What do I do…?" I ask. She sees the genuine confusion on my face. Her eyebrows sag in sadness.

"I don't know…" she mutters. I turn to face the window again. John is there. Mrs Hudson comes in with a tray and a sandwich to force him to eat. She stands there as he chews. I see the reluctance on his face. What is he trying to do? Starve himself to… No… No, he couldn't. He wouldn't. Molly senses my panicked revelation.

"What's wrong?" she asks.

"Is John… Planning on killing himself?" I ask, barely masking the fear. Molly stares at me, as though I've pointed out something that should have been obvious. I gulp. "Molly?" She drops her mug. It shatters to a hundred pieces on the floor, and the cold tea left inside leaked into the floor. "Molly?" I ask again, standing up. She's not been telling me something… Something she didn't think was important.

"I… I can't believe I-" She stammers. I frown, worry rising in me. "The signs… I missed the signs!" she cries, standing up.

"Signs?" I ask. My carefully composed wall is breaking in panic…

"Yes… The signs…" she mutters, and she's gone before I can say another word.


	11. The Chains

Mycroft has gone too far.

I am chained to the chair in the flat opposite 221B. He allows me this much. To watch. To watch John… The girl, his strange P.A. who is always on her phone, is my bodyguard. If I try and escape, she texts Mycroft, and his guards are there in seconds.

One and a half years since I "died"… At least half of that time has been spent in this chair.

Molly still gives me updates on John. She said she's trying everything she can. We both though he'd get better in time. We were wrong.


	12. The Ruin

John is worse than ever. He has to be force-fed now by Mycroft's people.

I beg. I beg and plead. I'd get on my knees if I could get out of this chair. I beg Mycroft to let me see John, but he refuses. I can't stand it much longer, watching John disintegrate. If he… No. I won't think about it.

I will block that thought into a tightly padlocked room in my Mind Ruin, along with everything about John that now causes me pain.


	13. The Rot

My mind is rotten now. The work doesn't help. I can barely stand to deduce anything… It's too much.

I am dead.

My mind is dead. I am my mind… It is my existence. The rest has always been transport. All I am is a shell, the walking dead. Mycroft trusts me enough to let me out of the chains.

Two years since I died… And it's true.

I died inside that day.

I walk with the living, but there is nothing left of my old self anymore. My carefully constructed walls of emotionless nothing crumbled long ago. I am raw.

John is worse. He's under constant surveillance. Not just from me. I don't leave the chair much, unless John is out of my sight. Then I pace, or Mycroft makes me eat. He's taken to being my bodyguard himself now. His cameras watch John constantly, checking he won't do something stupid.

If only John would improve. Then I could relax.

I can't relax.


	14. The Final Problem

"SIR!" Cried one of Mycroft's guards. No… no, no… NO! I hear the panic in his voice. The horror. I stand. I push past my brother to the camera monitors.

"GO!" Mycroft yells. They are in action immediately, but I know, to my horror and heart-break, they are too late. John has been staring at the knife for a long time. Weeks. Months. I lost count…

Time was nothing to me anymore. I couldn't distinguish day and night. I didn't care for it. Neither did John.

I watch, tears running down my face. My emotions are raw, no longer a new thing to me…

He's locked himself in his room.

The door is blocked with every piece of furniture he owns. He spread the contents of the box over the floor. The letters, in several piles. Too many to spread out. The pictures, spread in a wide arc around him. The scores, my violin and my skull. The rose…

The circle is large, and reminds me of a ritual. He says something. He hasn't said anything in a long time.

"Soon, Sherlock… Soon… No more waiting… I'm coming… I love you."

And he plunges the knife into his stomach.

Whatever remained of my heart, it just shattered…

My body detaches from my mind, and forces its way from the house, sprinting into 221B, ahead of the rushing paramedics and Mycroft's men. It rams through the door, past the furniture, then quickly replaces it all.

Privacy.

I fall to my knees, my body and mind re-connecting.

"John… John, wake up… No… John… JOHN!" I wail, cradling him in my arms. He's not gone yet… His eyes open slightly, weakly.

"I told you… Soon…" he says.

"No… No, no!" I cry.

"Aren't you pleased to see me…?" John whispers.

"I've always seen you…" I whisper. "I've been watching for so long…"

He smiles. He mis-understood…

"Watching you stand alone…"

"I never stood… Not without you." John's voice is disappearing, fading. I watch, numb, as the life leaves his eyes.

"John… JOHN!" I cry. The tears fall rapidly, mingling with his blood… I clutch his cold, limp body to me, burying my face in his matted hair. "Why…?"

And I realise… _This_ is the final problem. Not my suicide… But John's. And John's is real… Too real.

I stare at his face. Peaceful… But lifeless. I press my lips to his stone cold ones. I've never felt so much in my life… Love, pain, anger, grief, sadness, agony…

I hear a banging on the door.

"Sherlock!" Mycroft yells. "Sherlock, let us in!"

No.

I stare at the camera.

"No." I mouth. "This is all your fault…" I continue. I hear someone communicate it to him.

"NO! IT'S NOT MY FAULT!" He yells.

But he knows it is.

I stare blankly at the camera. I pull the knife from John's stomach, tears dry on my face. No more will fall, though I know they want to. They can't. Because they know…

They know I'll see him soon.

I hold the knife out before me.

Mycroft's yelling gets panicky, persistent.

"Goodbye, dear brother." I say. There is no emotion in my voice. Another knocking, another squeal. Molly. "Goodbye Molly. Thank You." I say.

The blade hits hard. My blood mixes with John's as I tear it from me, to speed the process.

Their voices blur.

I hit the ground.

I am dead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Hope you enjoyed it... I know, evil ending (my heart was breaking as I wrote it, trust me...) Love you all!   
> P.S. If anyone reads my other fics they might have seen the reference I made to one of my one-shots :)


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